


the saddest truths (and twisted beauty)

by littlebirdfalling



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorder, Other, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, This will hopefully get happier, more tags to follow as the story is written, so who knows, we're on this ride together though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebirdfalling/pseuds/littlebirdfalling
Summary: They say Jehan Prouvaire eats paint (and nothing else)





	1. twisted irony

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE mind the content warnings. This fic will cover a lot of potentially triggering things so please keep yourself safe if you read it.
> 
> Anyway-chapter 1, in which Jehan takes the phrase "starving artist" a bit too literally. TW for talk of eating disorders, mentions of past abuse, and a panic attack.

They say Jehan Prouvaire eats paint.

And that’s the saddest truth, isn’t it? Jehan Prouvaire, tongue touched to the end of their pen, or the bristles of a paintbrush. “So skinny.” One of their friends will click their tongue, and another will say with a laugh. “Oh, they don’t eat anything but paint, of course they are.”

Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint. He used to believe it would make him happy, or it would feed that dark monster that lived in his chest-the aching hole that begged to be filled, darkness growing tendrils and grabbing at his mind, his heart, strangling his breaths.

Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because it was toxic, because he was depressed. Jehan’s therapist has told them this many times, reminded them not to idealize that kind of darkness, not to seek after pain. But Jehan is never truly happy unless they aren’t and isn’t that ironic? Isn’t that just just fucking tragic. They’ll never be happy unless they’re miserable, unless they’re falling apart, unless they’re at their breaking point. 

Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would make him happy.

Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he wanted to die.

Conflicting realities, conflicting ideals, but Jehan isn’t so sure they see a difference.

Jehan Prouvaire does not eat. Ink and paint, ink and paint, hips and ribs and knife sharp cheekbones. Ink and paint running through their veins, turning them into a masterpiece. Their parents mistakes have grown tendrils too and they’re invading, infecting Jehan’s mind, and isn’t it so easy to blame it on them? To blame it on a screaming mother and a father with his fists and a childhood spent being told they’re not enough (or too much). So easy to blame it on their parents, their trauma, the chemicals in their brain.

Jehan eats nothing but paint and ink and and Jehan flinches when someone moves and Jehan takes pride in the bags under their eyes - if they’re concerning people, if they’re making people notice, they must be doing something right.

 

* * *

 

“How are you, Grantaire.” Jehan asks, voice weary eyes weary head weary. They know how this conversation will go. They ask him how he is - he lies, he lies, he always lies. Or he tells the truth and they’ll quietly seethe because  _ you’re supposed to be getting better _ and  _ you said you were trying this time  _ and Jehan isn’t supposed to care anymore but they still resent him. For every lie, every broken promise, every tear they’ve shed over him, they resent him.

And then he’ll ask them how they’re doing and they’ll tell the truth, and he’ll get angry. They know how to read it in his face, how to see it in the lines and the weight on his shoulders. They take a perverse sort of satisfaction in i _ t. Look, you’re not the only one fucked up. Look, I can hurt too, I can bleed too, don’t pretend you’re special. _

They won’t say anything. Neither of them will ever say anything. This is how it is-quiet resentment and words left unsaid no matter how badly they burn at your throat.

“I’m fine, Jehan.”

 

* * *

  
  


They’re silent at the meeting, today. They have nothing to say - they look at their friends, at the people they remember loving so dearly they would give their own breath to keep them safe, and feel around in their chest for something, anything, like that far off warmth.

They can’t feel anything, nothing but hollowness and the familiar ache of nostalgia, the bitter taste of wishing for a time when their love had filled the whole of them, warm and comforting, pressed kisses to cheeks and foreheads, a gentle caress of someone’s curls. They can’t remember the last time they touched anyone.

The meeting starts and ends almost without Jehan noticing, without them blinking. Enj puts a hand on their shoulder, lightly, and some sort of shadow crosses his face. 

“Can we talk?” He asks, quiet in that way he is when he has something weighing on him.

“Sure.” They give their best approximation of a smile at him, but they can tell he isn’t fooled. They know Enj, and they know how well Enj knows them. They can’t fool him. 

They’re expecting him to wait until everyone’s gone and sit them down, give them the speech about how he expects better and how they need to keep trying, how he’s not giving up on them. They’ve heard it, they could probably recite it back to him at this point. But they’ll listen anyway. Instead, though, he gathers his things in his arms and inclines his head, motioning for Jehan to follow him to his car. 

The day is cloudy and gray, and if it were raining it would likely be delightful, Jehan thinks. Perfect window sitting, poetry writing weather. It isn’t raining though, because even the weather is a constant disappointment to them. The sky is gray and it’s fitting because Jehan feels gray, all color drained from them. Even Enj looks muted today, no bright red coat to be seen. Everything is muted and numbed-gray like the sky and like Jehan’s mood, gray as the cracked and broken concrete, gray as Montparnasse’s eyes in that one shirt they love.

They fold their knees to their chest the moment they get into Enj’s car, arms wrapped around themself, and Enjolras doesn’t mention it.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

Jehan hasn’t worn a seatbelt in months. They’re not going to kill themself, they’re not going to actively end their life. They’ve got too many people that will be hurt by that, too many people they could upset, and Jehan may not be living for much, but their friends don’t know that. But...if they cross the street without looking both ways, if they don’t wear their seatbelt, if they take a few too many Advil on an empty stomach....

“Where are we going?” They ask Enj, looking out the window instead of his face.  It’s still scattered with raindrops from the mornings rainstorm, and Jehan watches them chase each other down the glass.

“You’ll see.”

He parks them outside a gate Jehan knows well, one surrounded by scattered trees and soft flowers (last time they’d come here, last time, they’d woven those flowers into a crown - it had looked so pretty on top of Enjolras’s curls - now they only have memories and cold hands and absolutely no desire to leave the car.)

“The beach?”

“The beach,” he confirms, and he steps out of the car. The sky is still gray, and they can see the light breeze ruffling through his hair, but he opens the door for them anyway. The beach, then, Jehan thinks, admittedly a bit perplexed.

They walk the path to the beach silently, and the instant the dirt road turns to sand Jehan slips off their shoes. It’s cool and slightly damp beneath their toes, the feeling reminiscent of more times than they can even recall, reminiscent of bonfires and day long beach trips and laughing with their friends, lipstick kisses on cheeks and too big sun hats. For a moment they feel like their old self again. 

But this is a different Jehan. They are not the Jehan of sun hats and overalls and lipstick kisses, flowers inked on skin. Not anymore. Now they are the Jehan of too big skirts and greasy hair that they haven’t bothered to brush in who knows how long, the Jehan of bitten nails and ghostly skin. Ghostly is right, they think, they feel like a ghost of themself. Traveling through their own footsteps, their own memories, and feeling like a complete stranger.

Enjolras sits down, a few feet from the shore, and Jehan follows. The two watch the waves crash for a long moment. There’s a crab a few feet away from Jehan, and it’s struggling to overturn a shell. Why it needs the shell, Jehan doesn’t know, but-

“I know it’s getting bad again.”

Enjolras doesn’t look at them, he’s still staring at the horizon, but Jehan knows he wants an answer. They wish they could deny it, say they’re fine-but he knows they’re not. He knows, so all lying would accomplish is alienating them from yet another friend, and there’s still a part of them that longs for friendship and warmth, someone who  _ understands. _

“I’m sorry,” they say instead. And it’s not what he wants to hear but it’s all they know how to say, the only words they can think even begin to cover it.  _ I’m sorry I’m not better. I’m sorry I stopped trying. I’m sorry, I know you believed in me. _

“I know.”

The crab is still trying to get the shell, but all he’s really doing is burying it further in the earth.  _ Give it up,  _ Jehan thinks,  _ give it up, you’re not going to get that shell. Go get a new one. _

“We used to come here all the time.” Enj says, still staring at the horizon. “I don’t know what’s changed.” He does. He does know. Jehan has changed, Jehan has turned cold, has turned into themself and cut themself off from everyone they know. Jehan is the one who turned bitter and dark and pushed away every single ounce of kindness anyone tried to show.

“I’m sorry.” They say again, and their voice cracks on the last syllable. The darkness, the pain, it’s formed an ache in their chest-their throat-they think they’re going to choke on all of it. They can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and their fingernails dig crescent moons into the soft flesh of their hands.

“Jehan?”

_ Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint. He thought it would make him happy.  _ The thought is comforting. It’s something they know, something true. Comfort, comfort, safety.  _ Threes are good. Three is comfort. Vincent Van Gogh, Vincent Van Gogh, Vincent Van Gogh. Edgar Allan Poe. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. _

“Jehan, listen to me, please. You’re okay. Breathe, come on.” They don’t know when they closed their eyes, don’t know when they curled their knees up to their chest, and they make some sort of pained sound. They can’t breathe, there’s a weight on their chest, and their thoughts are hitting them like bullets - the fractures in their chest, the broken glass of their heart, it’s all falling apart, and they can feel the pain like a wound, like a gaping chasm. They can’t breathe can’t breathe  _ can’t breathe, _ and a hand touches their shoulder-

“ _DON’T TOUCH ME!_ ” They backpedal, arms raised as if to fend off an attack, thinking _father father belt he’s angry please don’t please-_

“Jehan. Jehan, it’s okay, it’s just me, you’re safe. It’s me, okay? Enjolras. I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“Please, please-“

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe. We’re sitting at the beach and you’re safe. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice is calm, and they raise their eyes. Slowly, as they blink, Enj comes back into focus-not their father, not a threat-and he has his hands raised, his expression worried.

“Sorry.” They whisper, shaking. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” He says, biting his lip. “Breathe, okay? Come on. Breathe with me.” He breathes in exaggeratedly, and Jehan follows, hands still shaking. “In for four….good, hold for seven…yes, good, now out for eight. Good, good, you’re doing good. Again, okay?”

_ It’s not okay, it’s not okay, nothing is okay- _

Jehan breathes.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Do you ever wonder what the future’s gonna be like?” Jehan asks. The sun is casting a golden glow on them both, lighting Enjolras’s curls like a halo. _

_ “Yeah.” He replies, grinning a bit. “I’ve decided that I’m gonna make my own future. And it’s gonna be happy.” His hand finds theirs, squeezing their fingers lightly. “You’re gonna be happy too, Jehan. I promise. _

_ They almost believe him.  _

 


	2. Ugly words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for talk of eating disorders and restriction, and self harm

 Jehan doesn’t like ugly words. _Relapse. Restriction. Disorder._

“You’re going to die, if you keep going like this.” Eponine says, eyes flashing with anger. “I got rid of that scale for a reason, Jehan, I broke it and chucked it out. Did you really think you could hide the fact that you’d bought a new one?” The simple answer is yes. Yes they had. Hidden under their bed, or in their closet, because Eponine may live with them but she respects their privacy. She’s never had any of her own, Jehan knows this, knows that she’s lived her whole life with no boundaries and nothing to herself. Boundaries, privacy-these things are important to Eponine.

“Stop it.” Jehan says, closing their eyes. Ugly words, ugly words-doctors and treatment and _how could you._ They hate ugly words, words they can’t twist into poetry or tragic beauty. Eating nothing but paint, so dizzy they feel as though they’re flying through life, pale face and cold hands and hollow eyes-that’s Romantic, that’s tragic, that’s something they can use.

Counting calories, restriction, that’s not something they know how to romanticize. They can’t turn that goddamn app into something deep or beautiful. They can’ turn the constant stream of numbers into poetry-80 for the apple, 110 for the banana, 5 for one strawberry, seven for a cup of lettuce, on and on and on and on and on until they can’t think of anything but numbers and pounds and the cravings twisting their stomach.

“Me? Me, stop it? You’re the one who needs to stop it, Jehan.”

“Ponine, please-” She stops her pacing, standing in front of them to look them in the eyes.

“You know this isn’t healthy.” She says. “You know where this ends up. We can still work through this, okay? This is just a relapse and we can work with that.”

_I know,_ Jehan wants to scream, _I know I know I know but I don’t care._

“I don’t want to.” They whisper. “I don’t want to, Eponine.” The anger fades from her eyes, and she sighs.

“I know, honey. I know.” She steps forward to pull them into her arms. There’s a long moment of silence, her hand running gently through their hair, and then she sighs.

“How long have you been lying to me, Jehan?”

“A few months.” Jehan admits, clutching the back of her shirt a little tighter. “Since....” _Since Grantaire, since he started getting bad again._

“I’d like to kick his ass, sometimes.” She mutters.

“You know it wasn’t his fault. He was sick too.”

“Doesn’t change what happened, how he made you feel.”

“Ponine?” Her arms tighten around them.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

  
Jehan cuts their hair that night.

There’s an itch in their fingers, to do something-change something-and they think their hair might be suffocating them, tangling them. They imagine being free of the weight of it, as they pull it free of its braid, shaking it out and untangling it with their fingers. All of a sudden, the hair they’d once treasured, the hair they’d been so proud of, feels oppressive and too heavy, and it seems to scream at them.

Their scissors are still in the drawer, and they’re dull and rusting but Jehan keeps them anyway. They’re not sure why. They find beauty in strange things, they always have, and a rusted blade is no exception. Their therapist says that they collect odd things because they had nothing of their own as a child, because they think having more things means more of an attachment to this world, because their hyperempathy causes them to feel guilty over getting rid of anything, makes them nearly cry for every trivial thing most people would throw away without a care.

_Fuck_ their therapist. Fuck whatever the hell their therapist thinks, Jehan knows who they are and they think there’s something maybe a bit kind in not wanting to throw away things others would. _See, see, I can care about something. I can have attachments._ Because surely if Jehan feels guilty for throwing out a pair of scissors, they can’t be a bad person. And surely if they would never get rid of these scissors…they must still feel something for their friends, must still have some emotion left inside their empty chest.

Their friends are gone. The scissors remain. Jehan takes them in hand, and cuts the first lock of their hair with a soft _snip_. It falls to the floor gracelessly, not quite as dramatic as Jehan would like, but they keep cutting. (Their head feels lighter. Their heart feels heavy.)

They make the final cut, defiant, and then glance in the mirror. It’s not them.

It’s not them. It’s someone else, someone with hollow eyes and a too pale face, eyebags heavy and dark. It’s someone suffering. It’s someone with a shitty haircut, and a shitty life, and not for the first time Jehan feels sorry for the stranger in the mirror.

A tear rolls down the cheek of the stranger, and Jehan watches as their face crumples. Except it’s not a stranger. It’s them. It’s them and they’ve destroyed themself and called it beauty, called it tragic. It’s not tragic. It’s not beautiful. It’s them staring in the mirror and not recognizing who they’ve become. It’s them, and they’ve gotten rid of everything they loved about themself. The smile. The sparkle in their eye. The beautiful hair.

All that’s left is someone who could be a ghost.

* * *

 

When Montparnasse comes home, Jehan is still on the bathroom floor, knees to their chest. The tile is too cold and the wall is too cold and the air is too cold against all their bare skin and they’re trembling, whether from cold or fear they’re not sure.

“Jehan.” He murmurs. “Oh, Jehan, what have you done? What’s happened?” Their beautiful auburn hair is scattered around the floor and there’s blood on their arms, their thighs, and they’re shaking so hard they can barely speak.

“It’s gone.” They manage. “It’s gone, all of it, it’s _gone._ ”

“It’s just hair, sweetheart.” He says gently, even though he knows it’s more than that. “It will grow back.”

“It was-it was growing back before.” Jehan chokes on a sob. “When I-when I was, was getting better, it was growing back and I was so _happy-”_ They can’t finish the sentence.

“I know.” Montparnasse says. His voice is soft, and Jehan doesn’t know what emotion is in his voice. It could be sadness, could be disappointment (how different are the two anyway?) but they can’t bring themself to care. _Happy, happy, happy,_ their brain screams. _You were happy._

_Could you be happy without this? Could you exist without this pain?_ Pain is a constant, pain is everyday, and Jehan doesn’t quite know what it is to exist without it. They can’t wrap their head around _happy,_ can’t seem to make it sound as appealing as it should. Jehan paints themself in tragedy and they don’t know how to romanticize happiness and none of it fucking matters anyway, none of it matters, because Jehan isn’t Jehan and they don’t know who they are, who they’ve become, and-

_Yellow paint. Van Gogh ate yellow paint. Van Gogh ate yellow paint. Yellow, yellow, yellow, three is good._ Yellow like sunflowers and yellow like summer afternoons with their friends and yellow like that dress they’d loved before they’d decided it made them look too big. They’d loved yellow once upon a time.

Montparnasse presses a white washcloth to their arm gently, and they wince, even though the sting is familiar by now.

“I’m sorry.” They whisper, and he doesn’t say anything. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says, after a long moment.

“Parnasse? You think I’m pretty, right? You think I’m pretty?” He stops for a long moment, trying to find the words to say.

“I will never not find you pretty.” He says, eventually. “But I thought you were prettiest when you were happy. When you were confident.”

“I hated myself.”

“You didn’t. Your disorder told you to, but I know you didn’t. Not all the time.” He sighs heavily. “I just want you to be happy again, Jehan. This isn’t happy. This isn’t as pretty as you think it is.”

“...I don’t recognize myself anymore, Parnasse.”

“I don’t either.”

  
  


They fall asleep in Montparnasse’s arms that night, and he seems to chase every nightmare away.

 

* * *

 

“Hi.” Jehan says quietly, setting down their books on the table. The buzz of conversation stops instantly, every single member of Les Amis falling silent at once, and Jehan takes their seat. They don’t dare look up.

“Jehan, I…” Enjolras starts.

“ _Honey._ ” Courfeyrac manages. “What did you _do?_ ” Only Eponine is unfazed. She’d been second to see Jehan’s hair, after they’d cut it. And she’s seen this before, they all have, and even though Jehan doesn’t want to admit it, they all know what it means.

Grantaire is silent. He doesn’t want to think about it, they know this, doesn’t want to admit everything that had happened between them. As if their spiral had nothing to do with him, as if their relapse wasn’t connected to his stubborn refusal to just fucking _try, come on, that’s all I’m asking._

“It’s…It’s different.” Combeferre says at last, attempting a smile and they could cry for how much they appreciate his constant kindness.

“I don’t even recognize myself.” They say, softly. They’d thought it a curse, but maybe it’s a blessing instead.

“Nope.” Courfeyrac says, standing up. “I will not let this stand. Eponine, get me a pair of scissors.” She rolls her eyes at his theatrics, but stands up anyway. Enjolras, still at the front of the room, sits down. Maybe he’s unwilling to argue with Courfeyrac, maybe he thinks the haircut looking better will make Jehan feel better, maybe he just doesn’t have the energy to protest everyones antics anymore. It doesn’t matter. Jehan still ends up sitting in the chair with Courfeyrac snipping away at their hair, Cosette making approving noises, and Joly poking them in the side with his cane.

“Joly, I saw that.”

“Saw what?” He’s the picture of innocence, and Jehan tries their hardest not to smile at it.

“You poked me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, it was clearly Boss.” Bossuet, across the room, looks up.

“What did I do?” He asks, more amused than anything.

“You know what you did.” Jehan rolls their eyes fondly at the two of them, unable to stop the grin spreading across their face.

“Joly, stop tormenting them.” Bahorel grins, putting the smaller man in a halfhearted headlock. Joly only laughs, poking Bahorel in the side until he lets go, and goes after Cosette instead. She gets up with a squeal, darting away, and Eponine looks up to call

“Bahorel, if you hurt my girlfriend I’ll be forced to hurt you back.”

There’s a warmth in Jehans chest and it feels like hope, like love, could almost be a summer day filled with laughter and light and peace. This is what it feels like to breathe, Jehan thinks.

This is hope, warm and all encompassing, and Jehan could drown in it happily.


	3. Broken Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope is yellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for nightmares, mentions/descriptions of injury and blood, a panic attack, and descriptions of bullying and sexual assault

Hope is yellow. Hope is yellow and soft, fragile as a butterfly wing, as a rose petal, and it’s beautiful. Hope is beautiful, Jehan thinks, and for the first time they think it may be even more beautiful than tragedy. The yellow on their paintbrush is soft as a sunrise.

“You missed a spot,” Eponine says, pointing to their painting. Jehan leans closer, trying to see what she means-and with a laugh she flicks her own paintbrush at Jehan, splattering them with pink.

“Hey!” They shriek, turning towards her as she darts away. She’s painting a sunrise too, but using very liberal amounts of pink and red. “ _ Get back here, ‘ponine!” _

“Catch me if you can!” Eponine taunts, laughing. Jehan rolls their eyes, but sets off after her without hesitation. 

“You two are children.” Montparnasse sighs. Jehan only grins, waving at him on their way by. 

* * *

 

Hope is yellow and hope is warm-but warmth fades. And Jehan is cold, cold to their bones, to their very core. 

The clock reads 3:14 in neon green letters, cutting through the darkness of the bedroom. The silence is overbearing and oppressive and it threatens to suffocate them. Maybe that’s why their lungs don’t seem to be taking in air, why no matter how hard they try they can’t manage to breathe. They can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and no matter how hard they try- _ can’t breathe help why can’t I breathe- _ they can’t shake the images. Montparnasse bleeding on the pavement. Courfeyrac, red stain blooming on his chest. Enjolras, bruised and glaring and filled with fervor. Wrapped in red. There’s red everywhere, everywhere-Montparnasse’s lips and nails and the blood the blood is everywhere it’s everywhere they  _ can’t breathe.  _ Their thoughts are so loud that they forget about the silence and the nothingness around them-their panicked, static filled thoughts are screaming loudly enough to make up for it.

“Jehan?” 

They can’t breathe.

“Jehan, come on, it’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“...’nasse-” They whimper. “Sorry.”

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay sweetheart, there’s nothing to apologize for. Is touch okay?” They nod, and he carefully moves until he’s sitting in front of them, until he can wrap his arms around their shoulders and envelop them in his warmth. They’re still shaking and their thoughts are screaming and lungs aching, but he’s warm. He’s familiar. They can feel him breathing, his hand stroking their hair softly, and he’s whispering words of comfort. 

“It’s okay, darling, it’s okay, was it a dream?” They nod, hands clutching at the back of his shirt. “Oh, love, it’s okay. It was just a dream, yeah? It’s okay. It wasn’t real.”

“You-you were-” They can’t finish the sentence, they can’t, the memories are too recent and too real and  _ red, bleeding everywhere, so much red. _

“I’m here. I’m right here, and everything is fine. Everything is okay.” They cling a little tighter, burying their face in the side of his neck.

“You’re okay.” They breathe. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay, I promise. Not a scratch on me.”

“Okay.” They don’t let go. He’s warm and familiar and grounding and the feeling of his arms around them is combating the worst of the fears. He’s warm and breathing and  _ here. _

“I love you.” He says, his voice low and calm.

“I love you too.” Now that they’re more calm, they can feel the exhaustion heavy in their bones. They’re tired still, so tired, and the longer they’re in Montparnasse’s arms the more warm and comfortable they feel.

“Go to sleep, little bird.”

“‘m not tired.”

“Uh huh.” He says, the edge of a laugh in his voice. “Of course you’re not.”

“I’m nooooottttt.”

“So you won’t mind if we lay back down?” Their fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, and he’s quick to soothe them. “Don’t worry, I’m not letting go.”

“I love you.” They yawn. “Sorry.”

“You know I don’t mind.” He leans back, until they’re laying down, his arms still around Jehan and Jehan curled around him, face buried in his shoulder.

“Sleep well.” He says softly, and Jehan thinks about replying, but their thoughts are lost in the haze of sleep as it overtakes them.

* * *

 

**Jehan: do you ever even think about it? I don’t think you ever even acknowledged how much you hurt me unless you were throwing yourself a pity party. and really it just hurts to know how badly we fucked up and how badly it hurt me and it doesn’t seem like it affected you at all. I know i know you have enj now and you love him and he’s great. I just thought i was going to be that for you.**

**I thought I was going to be the one you loved that much.**

**you told me you fucking loved me, Grantaire. You told me you loved me but you don’t hurt someone you love that badly. Do you even realise how badly you fucked me up? How hard it is now? I was fucking recovering before I met you and you stole that from me and maybe I shouldn’t blame you, but goddamnit taire you certainly didn’t help. you were supposed to help i tried my goddamn hardest to always be there for you and always help you and you never even fucking tried and you sure as hell never cared enough to help me**

**did you ever even fucking mean it when you told me you loved me? because it sure doesn’t seem like you did.**

 

Jehan doesn’t send this text. They never do send it, they never do tell him what they’re thinking. A large part of it is fear-fear of what he’ll say, what he’ll do. Fear that he’ll tell them everything they did wrong and they’ll be forced to admit their own shortcomings in the relationship instead of acting the victim, searching for pity from anyone who will give it to them. They know they fucked up too, they were just as unwilling as him, just as stubborn and just as sick.  _ But if he’d tried too, if he’d just tried- _

They don’t want to think about the what if’s. Whatever choices they’ve made, whatever wrong they’ve done, the choice to end their relationship with him isn’t one they regret. Not anymore.

“Parnasse?” They murmur, and he glances up from his phone.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m thinking about him again.” Montparnasse nods, slowly.

“Did you send the text?”

“No.”

“All right. You don’t have to. Do you think it would help, though? To have an actual conversation with him about it?”

“I don’t know.” Jehan moans, burying their face in their hands. “I don’t know, don’t ask me that.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” With a sigh, they flop backwards, moving until they can rest their head in his lap.

“How are you, love?” They ask, and he smiles a little at them, one hand already moving to play with their hair.

“I’m fine, honey. Tired, a bit dysphoric, but I’m okay.”

“Okay.” They smile. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, little bird. So much.” Jehan closes their eyes, still smiling, lets the soft motion of his hand in their hair soothe them.

 

* * *

 

Jehan has always been too much. They talk too much, too loudly, about things nobody else even cares about. They wear clothes that are all but inviting people to make fun of them. They’re rash, impulsive, they don’t think before they speak. And they get too attached too quickly. The catch there is that nobody ever gets attached to them-so they always wind up looking clingy, desperate. Like the unloved, unwanted child they still feel they are sometimes. They try so hard to be kind, to be good. Like maybe if they’re kind enough someone will love them. Maybe if they give enough compliments, do enough favors, it will be enough for someone to care. Maybe it will make up for how big they are, how loud they are.

They’ve spent so long trying to carve themself into someone smaller, quieter, someone who listens but does not speak. Someone who is effortlessly kind. Someone who isn’t hard to love.

They’ve always been hard to love. Hell, they’ve always been hard to tolerate. It’s better now but...They still remember. They remember picking gum from their hair constantly from classmates who hated them. They remember their books being stolen, returned to their desk with slurs written in sharpie, or dicks drawn in the same permanent ink. They remember people dumping their food from lunch in Jehan’s bag as if it was a trash can, or grabbing it while Jehan was walking, so hard the straps would rip. They remember being kicked, they remember being pushed up and down stairs, being grabbed so hard the nail marks bled later. They remember the humiliation, the shame, of being groped and touched and used-the boy who’d grabbed them on the back of the bus, put his hand down their pants in the middle of seventh grade social studies, grabbed their boobs at junior prom, asked them out in front of five of his friends when they couldn’t escape, followed them to the bathroom. The indignity of their body not being theirs, no matter how many sweatshirts and baggy jeans they tried to hide in. There was always something for people to grab, comment on, lay claim to.

“I love you.” Parnasse always says, whenever they mention these things. “I love all of you-even the parts you think are bad.” He loves them. But their parents had said they loved them (surely they must have? At some point they must have) and those old friends who’d tormented them like that had claimed to love them and Grantaire had claimed to love them.   
It’s harder and harder for Jehan to believe, with every time it turns out to not be true. 

“I love you too.” Jehan always replies. But Jehan has always loved too easily, always given away their whole heart and gotten it back in pieces, always cared too much. Jehan is pretty broken now, they think.

But they can still love him with whatever broken pieces are left in them.


End file.
